


The Breadth of an Eternity

by plumtrees



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Body Worship, M/M, Riding, Telepathic Bond, god Ushijima, hanakotoba references galore, high priest Shirabu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 17:43:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6339028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumtrees/pseuds/plumtrees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>His power flows from his core and into Shirabu, like a steady pump of blood passing between vessels. Shirabu closes his eyes and squeezes his hands around the hilt, the leather cords digging into his palms. The blade shakes restlessly, vibrating as it feeds Ushijima’s blessing into the soil, nourishing it in preparation for the seedlings.</p>
  <p>Ushijima feels it all come to life beneath his feet, the slow crescendo of the earth’s heartbeat. The ground darkens like volcanic soil, promising a fruitful harvest. He lets go of Shirabu’s neck and the connection severs, Shirabu’s lids peeling back, tawny eyes burning, pools of molten gold shining lustrous even in the absence of light. </p>
  <p>And here, Ushijima thinks, as he does every other time he’s witness to Shirabu in all his majesty, that it is a great injustice on the universe’s part that Shirabu Kenjirou was not brought to this earth as a god.<br/></p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	The Breadth of an Eternity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nautilics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nautilics/gifts).



> Mandy, sweetest lil pasta portion-challenged cinnamon roll. For you on your birthday. (sorry it's so late *bangs forehead on the floor to repent*)

It starts, as spring always does, with the rain.

Outside, the city paints a picture of solitude. The people have already had their moment of panic, a flurry of activity to find shelter, baskets of half-dried laundry begrudgingly dragged inside, vendors cursing as they were forced to close early.

A sharp _snip_ of scissors breaks the silence and Ushijima’s eyes slide over to his lone companion. He kneels, hunched over poppies lined before him like soldiers, all identical and perfect. He’s bending a length of stiff wire into a circle, poised in the fragility of concentration. He had just gotten his hair cut that morning, and smatterings of discarded hair still cling to his cheekbones. His fingers twitch; the phantom feel of Shirabu’s skin wakes beneath his thumbs.

“Spring is early this year, wouldn’t you say, Ushijima-sama?”

Shirabu had grown up slow and beautiful. Despite being a creature who has preexisted even the very concept of time itself, who had witnessed the rise and fall of civilizations pass like a mere blink of an eye, Ushijima remembers in vivid detail the day Shirabu first learned to walk, to talk, the day his body bartered his high soprano for a tenor, the day he looked down at him—Shirabu had reached up to tuck a camellia behind his ear—and realized he no longer had to angle his head as sharply as he used to.

“Time does not hold any meaning for immortals.” he says.

“Neither does age, I take it?” Shirabu answers, in that musical cadence that Ushijima has long since associated with teasing. He resumes his task; thin, nimble fingers never faltering from the practiced rhythm of braiding the stems, and Ushijima watches him work, oddly entranced.

“You are aging quite gracefully, Shirabu.” and it is the truth. “At your age, Semi already had a head full of white hair and age lines on his forehead.”

Shirabu throws his head back in laughter. Ushijima blinks, confused.

“I think I’m the one to be blamed for that.” Shirabu says, turning his attention back to his task with a warm smile. “I was a difficult child.”

Ushijima remembers how often Shirabu would go against Semi’s teachings, how their lessons would consist mostly of Shirabu questioning everything Semi said, how sharp and crass Shirabu’s tongue was— _is_ , only he’d learned to be more masterfully subtle with his use of it as he grew.

Shirabu holds up the completed wreath, the poppies bright and red against his bandaged fingers. Ushijima raises his eyebrow as Shirabu approaches, walking on his knees. He reaches out with his mind in an attempt to figure out his motives, but all he gets is a flash of _mischief_ before the fresh-smelling crown is perched gently on his head.

He shuffles back to admire his handiwork, blows a small laugh through his nose. Ushijima keeps his head straight to hold the crown in place.

“What is it?”

Shirabu shakes his head, reaching to retrieve the crown. “Just enjoying the irony.”

Before he can ask for an explanation, a knock disturbs the peace. Just barely visible through the shōji, an acolyte’s silhouette is bowed slightly in deference.

“The ceremony is about to start.” Ushijima intercedes before Shirabu can call out to acknowledge the visitor. Shirabu nods and begins peeling off the bandages.

Shirabu stands and moves close to the door, addressing the young acolyte in clipped tones. Ushijima busies himself with getting dressed, slipping his arms into the sleeves of his kimono and picking up his haori from the floor. Behind him, Shirabu is already pulling off the obi keeping his yukata closed, and he takes the cotton wraps from the shelf just a breath before Shirabu’s hand comes up to pat the now-empty space. 

Their gazes meet, a silent impasse of equal stubbornness, and Shirabu sighs, averting his gaze as he turns to face him, arms raised to his sides.

“I still don’t understand why you insist on doing this for me.” Shirabu mutters, visibly discomfited when Ushijima kneels before him. “This is servant’s work.”

“When you do it yourself, you tend to wrap it too tightly.” Ushijima answers as he peels back the panels of Shirabu’s yukata. It exposes the sigil on his stomach, the very one he’d burned there when Shirabu was named his High Priest. He kisses the edge of the symbol and Shirabu’s thumb sweetly comes up to brush over his temple.

“And you do more than enough for me,” he says against the darker, rougher skin, “let me at least have this.”

Shirabu does not say anything more, but his mind sweeps over Ushijima and it’s a wave of _gratitude_ and _comfort_ and dashes of _embarrassment_. Regardless, Shirabu helpfully pins down the other end of the sarashi with his fingers while Ushijima wraps the rest of it diagonally over his midsection, folding over the fabric after each loop.

 

-

 

Shirabu’s ceremonial robes are light and practical, a personal choice that raised many eyebrows. He had foregone the traditional silk for cotton, the flowing sleeves that trailed along the floor now stopping at his knees. His hakama is a deep purple, almost black as it darkens under the rain.

Ushijima stands apart from the crowd, unseen by anyone except his High Priest. The people all stand a safe distance away, hunched beneath umbrellas and murmuring prayers to accompany the percussion of the rain, the background music to Shirabu’s dance.

Shirabu goes through the motions, lithe despite the steadily increasing weight of his clothes and the give of the soil beneath him. The sword in his hands glints with rainwater, drops sluicing along the sacred steel, hissing as it cuts through the air. 

He sinks to his knees and stabs the sword into the soil. The blade slices as far as it can go, and Ushijima takes his cue, stepping close, reaching out to grasp the bared skin of Shirabu’s nape. His hand covers the entirety of that pale column, the tips of his fingers ending where he can feel his pulse, sure and strong.

His power flows from his core and into Shirabu, like a steady pump of blood passing between vessels. Shirabu closes his eyes and squeezes his hands around the hilt, the leather cords digging into his palms. The blade shakes restlessly, vibrating as it feeds Ushijima’s blessing into the soil, nourishing it in preparation for the seedlings.

Ushijima feels it all come to life beneath his feet, the slow crescendo of the earth’s heartbeat. The ground darkens like volcanic soil, promising a fruitful harvest. He lets go of Shirabu’s neck and the connection severs, Shirabu’s lids peeling back, tawny eyes burning, pools of molten gold shining lustrous even in the absence of light. 

And here, Ushijima thinks, as he does every other time he’s witness to Shirabu in all his majesty, that it is a great injustice on the universe’s part that Shirabu Kenjirou was not brought to this earth as a god.

 

-

 

When they are alone again, Shirabu attacks his lips like a man starved.

They’ve only been separated a short while, long enough for Shirabu to get acceptably clean. He smells the cedar oil evaporating on his skin and he pushes a hand into his pants, reaches between his legs and feels the slick of it around Shirabu’s entrance.

In a mindless frenzy, he rips them out of their clothes, the plants they once were still obeying his call, the fibers parting under Ushijima’s fingers. Once he clears away his jinbei, he gasps softly when he finds nothing beneath.

“You walked from the baths without any underwear?” he whispers, voice inexplicably rough. “That’s quite bold, Shirabu.”

He’d had affairs before; Shirabu is not even the first of his High Priests that he had taken as his consort. He had seen submission in the shapes of their bodies, the way they presented themselves to him, chests to the floor and hips raised up, how their gazes landed just shy of meeting his.

There is none of that in the tense lines of Shirabu’s body, always ready to spring in motion, not afraid to push back, fingers curling into claws, digging nails into Ushijima’s skin, the pain healing over almost as soon as his nails pass on but Ushijima finds himself craving more of it, more of what Shirabu can give him.

He fights with equal intensity, with a strength he’d never thought to use in copulation. Shirabu had always been enticingly different, continuing to stoke a fire in him even when carnal pleasures should have long since lost their luster. He grabs his wrists and pins them down, above his head, and Shirabu writhes, the sheets that crease and pool around him highlighting the tempting silhouette of his body. He leans forward to suck a mark onto his collarbone, but Shirabu flinches back, struggling against his hold.

“Wait, wait, please.” he gasps, and Ushijima quickly complies, letting his grip fall slack, concern overpowering desire.

Ushijima recalls the first time, Shirabu shaking and crazed as he thrashed in the aftershocks of divine power, the blue of his veins alarmingly vivid against his skin, face flushed in the heat of a deep-seated fever, eyes nothing but black orbs ringed with gold, trembling in their sockets.

There is none of that now. His pupils are still blown wide but it is not from the current of excess power running through his body, demanding an outlet. He is calm, in control of his mind, as proven when he cups Ushijima’s face and kisses him, weight shifting to push him down.

Ushijima’s back hits the sheets and this too is new to him, but he finds himself liking the novelty. Shirabu straddles him but does not bring any of his weight to bear, their heat mingling in the space between their bodies. He swallows down a groan, struggling to be patient.

Shirabu leans over his face and meets him with a kiss on each cheek, innocent for such an intimate setting. He lies over him, their bodies melting together, tucks his face in the crook of his neck. Ushijima turns slightly, his cheek buzzing with the feel of Shirabu’s hair against it. The tendrils of Shirabu’s consciousness project _contentment, happiness_ and Ushijima stops there, relieved. He glides his hand over the expanse of Shirabu’s back, trailing through the goosebumps and pinpricks, the knobs and bumps of his bones.

“It’s always so overwhelming.” Shirabu whispers. “It felt like you were everywhere, I could feel you all around me, like a part of your _soul_ was in me… I should feel suffocated but I _love_ it. I love feeling that close to you.”

He shivers and Ushijima affectionately nuzzles his temple. Shirabu turns and their foreheads press together, the waves of their linked consciousness meeting like opposing tides, swirling and melding with each other until Ushijima can feel the sensations of Shirabu’s body as if they are his own: the cool night wind on his back, a warm, heavy hand settled at the base of his spine, a firm chest beneath his hands.

Shirabu angles his head slightly, breaking the mental connection to initiate a kiss and Ushijima meets him readily, mouth already open for Shirabu’s tongue. They parry and dance, tongues twisting around each other, each slide of slick muscle fanning the flames of arousal, burning like the driest tinder. They part and Shirabu’s quick breaths blow over his lips, hot and damp.

“I would like to try something different tonight, if you would allow me.” Shirabu requests as he lifts off of him, eyes attentive for any sign of his displeasure. He holds his hips and brushes his thumb reassuringly over the curved bones, a silent command to continue. Shirabu smiles, the briefest curve of his lips, bowing his head in gratitude.

To his surprise, Shirabu begins to crawl down the length of his body, coming to rest on his feet. He finds it strange that Shirabu devotes such loving attention even to areas that aren’t even conventionally erogenous zones; watching as he lowers his head and kisses over Ushijima’s foot, ankle, calf, thighs. He reaches the apex of his legs and, to his disappointment, only plants a soft kiss to the base of his cock before continuing on.

Shirabu’s hands slide over his chest, fingers catching on the hard bumps of muscle, the vestigial buds of his nipples. He bends over him and kisses his heated skin, tongue darting out to twirl around a nub before sucking it into his mouth. Ushijima grunts, hands spasming around their hold on the sheets.

Shirabu looks up and Ushijima arches his torso forward; encouragement. Shirabu’s lids lower and he dips his head to continue his own brand of worship, tongue and hands passing all across Ushijima’s body, hips coming down to grind his shaft along the plane of his stomach. Shirabu is already dripping, but his actions carry no urgency, pressing butterfly kisses, kneading his palms into tense muscles, coaxing them into loosening.

Unable to remain still any longer, he sharply hitches his hips upward, causing Shirabu to gasp and pitch forward into his arms. He wastes no time and latches his mouth around the most sensitive point of his neck, just under his jaw, and Shirabu’s breath comes out in a shudder, a low moan and a thready _Ushijima-sama._ slipping from his lips.

He can feel the heat coiling within Shirabu, the lust humming beneath his skin. He gives the area one last parting slide of his tongue before backing away to look Shirabu in the eye, admiring the flush on his usually pale skin.

“I’m sorry.” he apologizes, the word itself new to his tongue, only ever spoken in the time he spent with Shirabu. “It’s hard to resist you, when you’re like this.”

The red on his neck deepens, highlighting the bruise Ushijima had marked there with his teeth. He lies back down and enjoys the view of his lover’s body, immediately drawn to the symbol on his abdomen, the characters for Ushijima’s name, written in the ancient language of the gods. Something primeval awakens within him, to assert the claim he’s made on Shirabu long ago, but he wills himself to be patient, well-aware of the rewards of taking things slowly. 

Shirabu’s hands and mouth promptly return, calming the beast within him. He does not know how Shirabu plans to continue and he struggles against the burning curiosity that urges him to simply look into Shirabu’s mind. He keeps his body flat on the bed, tiding himself over with each gentle kiss until finally, _finally_ Shirabu slides his body down far enough to rub his cleft against his erection.

The oil had spread from Shirabu’s hole, easing the way when Shirabu leans back to grind harder against him. One of his hands reaches behind him to part his cheeks, teasing his entrance against the tip.

He lifts himself on his knees, reaching down to position Ushijima’s cock, and he lays his hands on his thighs, fingers spreading out to hold as much of him as possible. When Shirabu seats himself, Ushijima throws his head back with a moan, muffled behind clenched teeth. Shirabu’s body is like a furnace, sucking in every inch of his cock around that slippery, malleable heat.

“You always feel so amazing.” Shirabu whispers, vocalizing Ushijima’s own thoughts. His head tilts so far back the pulsing lines of his throat lie flush against his stretched skin. “You’re perfect, how can anyone ever hope to compare.”

Ushijima growls, nails practically digging into the meat of his thigh. “No one ever will.” he growls as he thrusts up the rest of the way, Shirabu whimpering in response as their pelvises meet with a _smack_. “I’m the only one who will ever get to see you like this.”

Shirabu’s legs tremble against his sides. He curves his back and reaches around to support himself on Ushijima’s thighs, body drawn tight, chest pushed outward and cock standing and leaking in a lewd display between his legs. Ushijima licks his lips to quell his instincts, but loses all hope of keeping control when Shirabu begins to bounce on his lap.

“No one else.” Shirabu confirms, reassures, one hand coming up to entwine with Ushijima’s. “I’m yours. I’ve always been yours and I always will be.”

The ripples of Shirabu’s muscles captivate him, keeping his eyes locked on the fluid motions of his body as he rolls his hips, struggling to find the perfect angle. Ushijima shifts a little to the right before lifting his hips from the bed abruptly, stunting Shirabu’s rhythm. Shirabu’s eyes snap open, whining at the first burst of pleasure. He watches his chest heaving with every breath, skin shining with sweat beading like pearls. 

He bucks _hard_ , enough for his lower body to leave the bed, to cause Shirabu to lose his grip and fall forward into Ushijima’s arms with a choked curse. He catches him and presses their foreheads together, entangling with Shirabu’s mind. He takes in what Shirabu is feeling; the slight ache with every inward thrust, the resultant pleasure when he strikes over his prostate. Shirabu gasps and his cock twitches between them and Ushijima knows he can feel his pleasure too, the tight embrace of Shirabu’s warmth, the pulsating constrictions around his cock. 

“Ushijima-sama,” Shirabu whines, high and desperate, body spasming in Ushijima’s arms, “I’m going to— _fuck!_ ”

He can feel the sting in his mouth, Shirabu biting his tongue just a split second after the curse escapes. Ushijima knows Shirabu finds the old habit vulgar, but Ushijima loves it, loves to make Shirabu lose control of himself when they’re like this, reduced to basest instinct. He leans close to kiss him, sucking his tongue into his mouth to soothe the pain.

“You can let go.” Ushijima hisses when he pulls back, hands flexing on Shirabu’s back, pressing bruises into the skin as he continues to drive deeper into Shirabu’s body, every frantic push and pull of their bodies bringing them closer to the edge of climax. “It’s alright, let me see you.”

Their mutual pleasure crests like fires rising to the heavens. Ushijima’s mind is nothing but a feedback loop of pure sensation, a cacophony of his own thoughts and Shirabu’s, misfiring nerves, an endless echo of _toomuchtoogooddon’tstopplease_ until Ushijima’s vision whites out.

When he comes back to himself, their fingers are interlaced, tight together, even when he can’t quite recall grabbing Shirabu’s hand; Shirabu’s legs around his hips twitching, as shaky as the breaths blown over his ear where Shirabu had gasped his name.

His says it again, mouths _I love you_ against the side of his neck. Ushijima savors the demonstration of Shirabu’s love and utter devotion to him, passed from his lips to his skin, whispered like the most solemn of prayers.

Ushijima gently flips them over, still buried inside Shirabu and hunches lower over him, bent over in supplication like his most desperate believers.

He cannot imagine anything more that he could want.

 

-

 

Ushijima has no need for all the things essential for humans, but Shirabu always enjoys partaking in activities with him, from a shared meal three times a day to sidling up to his body as he sleeps. It is not that Ushijima minds—eight hours is barely a speck in the grand timeline of things, after all—but he does not understand why Shirabu seems to like “cuddling” so much.

 _You’re warm_ had been one of the explanations given, but even in the humid summer nights, Shirabu still sleeps close, curling against Ushijima’s back or laying over his chest, seemingly not minding at all when he wakes up sticky with sweat. 

_You keep the nightmares away_ was another. He knows that Shirabu had always been plagued with nightmares. He had told him as much, after an unfortunate episode at a time when Ushijima had yet to have any respect for Shirabu’s mental boundaries, pushing into his mind when he witnessed him tossing around in his sleep, distressed whimpers passing from his lips. 

How his presence helps Shirabu sleep better, he does not know, but he doesn’t find it unpleasant at all, so he stays, savoring each and every one Shirabu’s breaths until the sun rises again.

One night, as he strokes over Shirabu’s hair, he sees it; a single strand of blinding silver in a field of wheat. Gently, he plucks it from Shirabu’s head. It glints in the moonlight, unassuming as it sits between his thumb and forefinger, made of protein and dead cells, not even a thousandth of a gram, meaningless as far as a god is concerned—

and yet, Ushijima stares at it with a rare focus, something grim settling in the precipice of his consciousness.

 

-

 

To be selected by a god is to receive the highest honor, to be feared and revered in equal measure to the gods they represent. It is a title one would expect thousands of humans would fight for, but all are aware that such power does not come without a price, and it is this price that weeds out the unworthy:

A mortal body is not fit to wield a god’s power, the inhuman strength coming with it its very own curse; for Tsukishima’s High Priest, it is a descent into nocturnality; for Oikawa’s, it is a body that never feels warmth, a deep-seated cold that no fire can soothe.

For Ushijima’s, the price is an early death. 

He finds it ironic that his medium, with the power to breathe life into the most arid soil, would be doomed with their own lives being cut short.

Shirabu shifts in his arms, groaning as he’s pulled from his dreams. He opens his eyes, a frown marring his features. Ushijima reels in his thoughts far too late, Shirabu is already looking at the white hair pinched between his fingers.

“Is that what’s been bothering you?” he says, tone almost scolding, and his breath tickles Ushijima’s naked skin. He takes it from him and untangles from Ushijima, sliding out of the sheets.

“I was aware of what it would do to me, and I still agreed.” he continues as he stands, carelessly dropping the hair onto the floor. “I don’t regret anything.”

Ushijima sits up, still staring at his empty fingers, the afterimage of the silver strand still burning beneath his eyelids. 

“Would it truly be so bad?”

Shirabu does not acknowledge him, body angled away as he walks towards the window. Ushijima wants to curse his own powerlessness. For all his abilities, his immortality, his divinity, he cannot slow the hourglass of Shirabu’s life.

“In order to give me immortality, you would have to sacrifice lives in an amount equal to eternity.” Shirabu rests his palms on the polished sill, uncaring about the cool breeze on his naked skin. “The time you take from them, you would give to me.”

“It does not even have to be human lives—”

“That is not my concern!” Shirabu yells, whipping around to face him, and the absurdity of it shocks him into silence. “You would sacrifice countless creatures just so I can remain with you?”

The silence stretches thin and tenuous, rubber ready to snap in half. Ushijima feels a very foreign anger cloud over his thoughts, a strange numbing in his fingertips as he clenches his fists in the sheets.

“There are very few things I am not willing to do for you, Shirabu.” 

“Then promise me that you won’t do it.” Shirabu begs. “I’m not worth dirtying your hands. I’m not worth anyone’s life.”

Ushijima sneers, straining rarely used facial muscles. He wants to grab him by the arms and _shake_ him into understanding because Shirabu is worth so much more than anything in the world, the entire _universe_.

Ushijima’s silence tells Shirabu all he needs to know, and his shoulders sag, bangs shielding his eyes as he turns to leave, only pausing to pick up his nagajuban from the floor.

 

-

 

Rarely is he ever not in Shirabu’s company. Gods normally have no reason to stray from their High Priests’ sides, and High Priests, by the nature of their profession, prefer to stay close to their masters. His and Shirabu’s relationship in particular had always been dependent on proximity, their consciousness melding in the space between them, entangling like a root slithering deep within fertile soil, flourishing and happy. Now, no warm response greets him when he reaches out with his mind. Shirabu is purposefully blocking him out, and the separation is more agitating than he cares to admit.

He finds him in the High Priests’ personal gardens. Each generation has planted at least one new flower here, and Shirabu’s contribution has been the small clump of camellias near the sakura tree. The season for flowering has already long past, but large yellow flowers still emerge from between leathery leaves, plentiful and untouched by rot, proof of Ushijima’s blessing.

Shirabu sits in front of his camellias, the watering can in his hands hinting Ushijima to the fact that he’s probably tending to it even though there is no real need to. He knows it relaxes Shirabu, so he lets him do as he pleases, turning his attention instead to the long-stemmed flowers growing in a small plot beside the camellias. He touches the tips of his fingers to its smooth petals and the buds bloom to life, little cup-like flowers in a myriad of colors swaying like a dog’s tail, greeting its master. 

These had been Semi’s flowers, he remembers fondly. He used to always pick a handful to give to his then-lover, _As a joke_ he used to say, but Ushijima could not fathom the humor in gifting a bouquet of freesias to someone. 

The rush of water suddenly stops and Ushijima knows that Shirabu is siting stiffly, hands folded in his lap, waiting. He extends his consciousness, cautiously reaching out to gauge Shirabu’s mood. It’s still unpleasantly cold but nothing like the frigidity of genuine anger. He is no longer upset with him, but Ushijima also knows partly from experience that it will not be wise to start a conversation on that assumption. 

“Are you still upset with me?” he tries. Shirabu only angles his head until Ushijima can see the barest outline of his face. 

“I’m not.”

Ushijima waits, watches the line of tension in Shirabu’s shoulders slowly melt away. He hesitantly reaches out again, nearly sighing in relief when warm tendrils of Shirabu’s mind greet him. They are thin and timid but Ushijima welcomes them nonetheless, the cooling balm of tenderness soothing away the stinging burns of their fight.

 

-

 

“There is another way.” he says much later, when Shirabu has settled back into his arms, enjoying the pleasant afternoon warmth. The peace shatters and a slew of _irritation_ and _exasperation_ pour from Shirabu’s side of the bond. Ushijima sends _calm_ over the bond but Shirabu still contorts his neck, straining to look at him, seemingly ready to argue.

“Let me finish.” he says firmly and Shirabu obediently falls silent. 

“I can share my immortality with the one I choose as my companion.” he closes his eyes and takes a breath he doesn’t need, perhaps to brace himself for the next words, or Shirabu’s reaction to them. “I will tether my soul to this being. I would have to ask them to stand beside me as my equal. They will share my power and my duties as a god, and will watch over my people as I have.”

He glances down to meet Shirabu’s wide eyes. His mouth hangs agape, seemingly frozen in place.

“What are you…”

“I suppose in human vernacular the equivalent of my request would be,” he swallows the leaden lump in his throat just as realization dawns on Shirabu’s face, “to ask you to become my spouse.”

 

-

 

It is the first day of autumn when Shirabu is laid to rest on a bed of the finest, most beautiful flowers and laid atop the altar of Ushijima’s temple, a final chance for the people to pay their last respects before his cremation. The elders of the temple gather but Ushijima knows they hold no affection for Shirabu; only coming to project their anxiety at each other about how Ushijima has yet to select a new High Priest.

He will, in time, but there is something he needs to do first.

Time has been kind to Shirabu’s body, as Ushijima had predicted. His skin still retains the suppleness of youth and his hair remains sleek and voluminous. He appreciates the details of his lover a little longer before he closes the distance between them, parting his bangs and exposing the smooth curve of his forehead. He lays a kiss there, then each eyelid, his nose, every single point of contact searing, tingling like a graze of lightning.

Ushijima places one last chaste kiss on his lips and caramel eyes blink open slowly, like he’s waking from a long and satisfying sleep. He inhales slowly—it will take him a little longer to get out of that habit—and tilts his head left and right, eyes rolling around restlessly, trying to process his surroundings.

Those eyes finally land on him and Shirabu’s face breaks out into a slow smile. 

“Ushijima-sama,” Shirabu breathes his name, all hushed respect and an otherworldly kind of awe, and Ushijima is brought back to the very first time Shirabu laid eyes on him. “I was almost afraid you’d leave me at the altar.”

Ushijima’s eyes widen. “I would never.” he insists, and Shirabu covers a small laugh with his hand, and _oh, that was a joke_.

Ushijima offers him a hand to help him sit up, watching the threads connecting his soul to his body coming apart. Shirabu looks down at the body, nose scrunching slightly, fingers trailing over the flowers that cradled him.

“This is me?”

“Just a body.” Ushijima says, and he gently cups Shirabu’s face and pulls his attention away from the empty shell. “ _This_ is you.”

Shirabu ducks his head as he smiles, an endearingly sheepish habit. He brushes over Ushijima’s fingers on his jaw, much rougher and thicker than his.

“I’m not entirely sure how to preside my own wedding. How do gods’ weddings usually go?”

“It’s underwhelming compared to human weddings,” Ushijima answers, recalls the theatrics and the mountains of strange customs that came with traditional weddings. “but if that’s what you’d prefer then—”

Shirabu shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m marrying you, that’s more than enough for me.”

Ushijima smiles down at him. “Then all you need is to trust me.”

“You don’t even have to tell me to.” Shirabu responds, and Ushijima spares a moment to kiss him.

He leads Shirabu to stand with him on the elevated platform of his temple, standing a respectable distance away. He watches Shirabu shuffle nervously in the heavy robes he had requested to be burned in, white as a swan’s down, accented with purple threads and beads. It’s more elaborate than Shirabu’s usual fare, but it suits him beautifully.

“Shirabu Kenjirou,” Ushijima starts, and the taste of Shirabu’s name lingers on his tongue like honey, “long ago, we both stood here and you surrendered your life to me.” He takes Shirabu’s hands and folds them over each other, sandwiching them between his. “Now I ask you to do it again, to pledge yourself to me not as my High Priest but as my groom.”

A soft, shuddering breath passes from Shirabu’s lips. Ushijima leans close to press their foreheads together, an act of mutual reassurance. He takes comfort in the _happiness_ that resounds through Shirabu’s mind.

“You will be remembered by all of humanity as my heart, my one. I will have the gods carve out your likeness in the stars. They will sing your praises and build statues, temples, _cities_ in your name.”

For every promise, he lays a kiss on Shirabu’s knuckles, gently cradling the hands that have served him so faithfully, that have woven him intricate flower crowns and prepared the gifts to be laid at his altar, the same hands that pushed Ushijima’s power into the earth, that tucked flowers behind Ushijima’s ears, that touched deeper than any other human before him. He wants to give him everything, in measure to the life Shirabu’s devoted to him. 

“You will be with me for all eternity, and even when all else ceases to exist, we will endure.” he continues, grasping Shirabu’s hands tight. “Is that what you want?”

Shirabu’s eyes are wet, gleaming tears clinging to the edges of his lids, but he still stands tall and dignified, meeting Ushijima’s eyes.

“Yes.” Shirabu answers, not a tremor in his voice, and even without reaching out to touch his thoughts Ushijima knows that he speaks nothing more than the truth. “I will take whatever title you wish to bestow upon me, as long as I get to stay by your side.”

Ushijima eyes the bright flush coloring the peaks of Shirabu’s face, wants nothing more than to kiss him, to hold him in his arms, but that will have to wait.

He reaches inside the sleeve of his haori and procures a small vial; red, almost opaque in its intensity. Shirabu eyes it curiously as Ushijima uncorks it.

The stories never told him how it tastes, and Ushijima had never been curious enough to ask any of the other gods that have bonded with mortals, but the first splash on his tongue is oddly familiar. The liquid drags thickly along his tongue and suddenly melts into a sweet, refreshing flavor: lemongrass and the natural sweetness of nectar, and that’s finally when he realizes that it tastes just like the tea Shirabu had personally made from his camellias.

He comes back to reality with the touch of a gentle hand, and he opens his eyes to meet the concerned furrow of Shirabu’s brow. Wasting no time, he surges forward and captures those lips in a kiss. 

Ushijima smells cedar oil, feels soft hands smoothing over his face, pulling him closer; the tender sweep of a tongue twining with his. The absence of Shirabu’s breath against his lips is jarring, but it allows him to hold him closer and continue to pass his tongue over his lips, sucking the sensitive organ into his mouth.

Even when their lips part, their bodies remain linked, as tight together as the stems Shirabu used to braid. They wait until Ushijima’s divinity settles from his soul to Shirabu’s, and Ushijima is patient.

They have all the time in the universe.

 

-

 

In the gardens, a shrub stands beside a patch of freesias, its leaves bright and gleaming with dew, branches heavy with red camellias.

**Author's Note:**

> also made art for this [here](http://plumtreeforest.tumblr.com/post/140910142281/happy-happy-birthday-to-merjolras-hope-you)!


End file.
